


Little Changes

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Community: widojest love, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 06:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18733918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: Jester Lavorre didn’t hate the mansion. She hated what it seemed to do to Caleb.





	Little Changes

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh for YOU, RICH!
> 
> Prompt: Each time we climb the stairs, something changes.

It wasn’t that Jester was afraid of the mansion.

How could she be afraid of it? She remembered how _excited_ Caleb had been, when everyone had looked at him expectantly for _Leomund’s Tiny Hut_ , and he'd smirked, brandishing in his hand a white marble, a small little door he’d carved himself, and a miniature silver spoon, looking at the three items like they were _priceless_. The Mighty Nein were all used to Caleb picking up things here and there absentmindedly and shoving them into one of his many pockets. It was just something Caleb _did_ , and Jester delighted in guessing the things he stored in every fold of his clothes during road trips. She remembered when they’d been paid handsomely for a job they’d done on their way back to Alfield, in the form of _jewels_ —while Jester had giggled and grabbed an opulent ruby-encrusted ring and moved to show everyone just how _pretty_ it looked on her blue finger, her breath had caught when Caleb had held up a piece of marble, polished into a perfect little sphere, a bright little smile playing on his lips. She’d thought he was maybe the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.

 _Oh_ , or when they’d crossed an insistent merchant on the road who had tried to sell them cutlery, Beau had begun to cuss him out, before Caleb had reached across Jester, and plucked the spoon from the merchant’s grasp, tossing him five gold while Jester had gaped. “ _Cayleb_ ,” she’d said, trying not to flush from how _close_ they’d been during the transaction. All sorts of details were visible when people dared to come close. Jester had discovered that day that Caleb’s mouth was quite beautiful. So were his dancing, glittering eyes.

“Ja?” He’d been looking at the spoon, inspecting it for scratches and marks. The sun had made his hair glow, and he’d looked ethereal. Despite the dirt, and the torn clothes, and the scruff, Jester had realized something important in that moment about Caleb. He wasn’t rugged deep down, like all her heroes. He was sharp and bright and _beautiful_.

“Are the spoons we have _now_ not _good_ enough for _you_?” She’d leaned over to him, clasping her hands over one of his shoulders, and had blinked innocently when he’d raised an eyebrow at her sudden contact. To her satisfaction, he had turned a little pink.

Caleb had just sighed, and put the spoon into one of his pockets. She’d noticed, with her keen, curious eyes, that it had been one close to the heart. “You’re a menace, Lavorre.” He’d then leaned closer to her, to her infinite delight, and added, “Consider it a little surprise. You like those, don’t you?”

Jester had _squealed._

Of course, that _fucking_ miniature door… He’d been carving into the ivory he’d bought for _days_ , neatly and competently with his dagger. Jester and Nott had been dancing drunkenly under the stars, pulling the others closer and forcing them to join in, a couple metres away from the barrier of the hut, and she’d turned, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and _begged_ Caleb to come. He’d simply shook his head, and she’d grimaced, turning to Fjord and pulling him close, trying to watch for Caleb’s reaction. The _fucker_ didn’t even look up, seeming engrossed with the little structure he was building.

“Jester—” Fjord had muttered, words slurred.

“I’m not _upset_ ,” she’d snapped immediately, and then had blushed furiously. “I mean…” Luckily, Fjord had collapsed onto her, and she’d dragged him to his bedroll. Caleb had given her a small smile as they’d passed him, and she’d had to force herself not to beam back.

That night, she’d muttered, taking watch alone, looking up at the stars, “Traveler, why do you allow _suffering_?”

He’d laughed a little, patting her shoulder sympathetically. “All good things come to those who wait, my dear.” His voice had been fond, and Jester had been unable to hold onto her anger after that.

This had all brought them to last night, when Caleb had taken out the spoon, and the marble, and the door. Bright blue arcane energy had rippled off of him, as he’d held the polished marble on the silver spoon, and jutted it through the small ivory door, his eyes glowing a lighter blue than they normally were. The arcane words he’d been muttering were low and quick on his breath, and the whipping wind around them seemed almost to take his breath away, and Jester had been looking at him, admiring the brightness of his magic, until Beau had grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to look up.

Her eyes had watered at the sight. There’d been large, fancy peach-coloured double doors with an intimately familiar design carved along the edges… it had been the double doors leading into The Lavish Chateau. Caleb had turned to her, satisfaction radiating off of him, and he’d said, his voice genuinely apologetic, “I’m sorry I didn’t dance with you, Jester. But I was _so close_.” He’d offered his hand, and she’d accepted, and then he’d opened the doors, leading into what looked like the lower floor of her beloved home. She’d nearly _cried_ when she’d seen the silver _chandeliers_ …

So, _no_. Jester Lavorre didn’t hate the mansion. She hated what it seemed to do to Caleb.

There were winding hallways he had asked them not to enter. He’d said that they were incomplete, and that he was still working out the designs, and that he’d rather they just look at his _completed_ work…. It didn’t explain why he basically _disappeared_ down a staircase to the right that lead straight _down_ , down to the presumably _basement_ , which stood out like a sore spot to Jester because it was the only way in which the main lobby diverged from her memory of The Lavish Chateau. She’d tried to respect his boundaries, she really did, but he was _never around_ , and as much fun as it was to order around the servants who were wonderful cats when they weren’t fulfilling her every whim, and to eat whatever her heart desired, and to relax in the gorgeous pool Caleb had constructed for them… she wanted their wizard.

 _Her wizard_ , the traitorous, fiercely protective part of her hissed, and Jester looked determinedly at those stairs, currently alone on the main floor. She was sitting with her elbows on one of the round, circular tables, covered by a soft white cotton, with a silver platter in front of her, full of enticing meats that Nott had _insisted_ she try. She eyed the candles at the center of the table, and thought of Caleb’s brilliant memory and obsessive need for perfection, and her gaze went back to that _fucking_ staircase.

“Traveler?” she said, putting her head down against her arms on the table. She heard the chair squeak against the floor as she adjusted her weight. “Why is he avoiding us?”

There was no response. She sighed, and tried not to seem too put out. He was busy, after all. His following was growing, and he couldn’t be there every time she wanted him around. Her heart kind of clenched. He’d been there whenever she needed him, to encourage her when she wanted to explore this place that had seemed so _big_ when she was a child. She’d explored, and explored, and when it had become too small, he told her all about the outside world. All about the sea, and the Empire, and Nicodranas, until her heart was so full of dreams she could barely _stand it_.

Jester made up her mind. She hesitantly walked to the staircase, and admired the fancy designs embedded into the dark wood of the railing. She could see nothing from her current position, considering how long the wooden stairs _were_ , and she dropped her glittering glove down the rabbit hole. She waited just a moment, taking deep breaths to relieve her sudden nervousness, and started making her way down.

 

It lead to a single room.

 _Well_. Jester wrinkled her nose. That wasn’t _really_ accurate, was it? It lead to a single room, which had a door on the other side to the section Jester had entered from, but she wasn’t quite brave enough to cross that threshold. The place she entered was a single room, as big as the main lobby. It was actually mostly empty, except around the borders. There were dark brown couches, cabinets and lamps pressed against the edges of the walls, which were themselves a dark red. It was the _tapestries_ that made the room interesting.

They were mostly portraits of old aristocratic figures that Jester didn’t recognize. They wore beautiful robes, and there was a frightening solemnity to their expressions—their eyes seemed to _follow_ her, and she winced, stepping back a little. Other tapestries were simply maps, and when Jester came closer to examine them, she noticed there were markings and arrows and symbols… battle plans? Jester widened her eyes. She understood how art could be used to tell a story—it was why she worshipped the Traveler through it. It was chilling to look at these maps, that seemed marked almost _ritualistically…_ as if they themselves were a kind of worship. Jester examined the many arrows extending out to the Zemni Fields from other locations in the Empire, and realized that this particular piece was telling the tale of how the Empire had swallowed Caleb’s home whole. She looked away, to another, and _this_ … the same thing, but with the Julous Dominion.

It was unsettling, so she looked away, to the fireplace that was set up on the other wall. It was large and grand and made of white marble. A healthy flame rippled in the firebox, and Jester felt the heat sweltering against her as she approached. It was far too strong to be a normal fire—it felt overwhelming, _arcane_ , and it reminded her of Caleb’s glazed, purple-tinged eyes, when he’d released a _Fireball_ at them in Asarius. She winced, and then looked up, above the mantle. There was a painting placed there that was lovingly rendered, with gorgeous paints and what Jester could clearly see were wonderful, pristine brushes.

She wanted to set that shit on _fire_.

Trent Ikithon’s face watched her smugly.

 

It really was a nice portrait, Jester thought, as she closed the door to the strange room carefully. The artist had captured his face in such a way that the hue of the light against his jaundiced skin made it seem to almost _glow_. His gray hair framed his face wonderfully and his dark eyes—there was an overbearing, intelligent charisma to him, to the way he carried his shoulders, to the manner in which his long fingers held his beautifully made staff, and he looked so _refined,_ so _bright,_ so _respectable_ …

She’d forced herself to leave, almost stumbling to the door and only by the grace of the Traveler grabbing onto the door handle at the last second, a part of her blue dress tearing in the process. She looked at it unhappily and cast _Mending._ Her hand was still holding the handle on the outside of the room, and she looked at her trembling hand. Jester sighed, and forced herself to let go, and cast _Mending_ on it as well. She watched the indents of her fingers erase from the brass, and wondered why it couldn’t be so easy to erase indentations other people had left on the people she cared about.

There were other rooms, beyond this one, but this one had already been so much, nearly too much, for Jester to handle. _He told you_ , Jester thought miserably, as she trudged up the stairs. _He told you he didn’t want you to see._ It was unbearably sad, the thought of Caleb conjuring up memories from another life and locking them in the recesses of his mind. Jester understood something a little close to that. She wondered where she would put all of her bad thoughts, if her friends had to crawl around inside her head, and she thought it might look like her second cabinet in her childhood bedroom, where she had put all the letters she wrote to her father, that she could never send him. She wondered how she would feel if Caleb unlocked that cabinet and opened one of those colored envelopes, his blackened fingers tracing over where a tear stain fucked up her ink and, _uh…_ Jester’s stomach _dropped_.

He was too fucking clever, though, was the _thing_. Jester sat back down, in her previous position in the chair, with her head on her crossed arms, and her body leaning against the table. She bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know if it was her guilt-addled brain making excuses, but he’d left this giant intrusion in the replica of where Jester had grown up… maybe this was his subdued way of asking for help. Maybe his bad thoughts were like Jester’s, and they _wouldn’t go away_ , so he was trying to take care of this problem and isolate it. Trying to dissect it like it was a tumor.

Or maybe she was just making excuses. She sighed, and felt Sprinkle shift slightly around her neck. “What do _you_ think?” she asked, rubbing the back of her head.

“Hmmm?”

Jester shot up, and pulled Sprinkle out from the creases of her cape, looking at the weasel with wide eyes. “ _Sprinkle_ , you can _talk_?”

“ _Jester_.” From the way her name was said, the rough, Common accent was obvious. She turned, and smirked at Beau’s befuddled, awkward gaze. She was dressed with her usual monk vestments and baggy clothes, her hair in a messy bun and her bright, intelligent eyes searching Jester’s face. She tilted her stance, and leaned against her quarterstaff, which she held with one end firmly planted to the ground. “You, uh.” She gestured to Jester awkwardly, and rubbed her neck. “You okay?”

She beamed, her arm around the back of her chair to support her turned position. “Well, _ja_.” Beau jutted out her chin, biting the inside of her cheek, and raised one eyebrow skeptically, which made Jester realize her nervousness was all too apparent in her voice, which was both higher than it normally was and had a slight tremor to it, like she was out of breath. She was a very good liar when it came to her own shit—when it involved other people, or hiding what she did, it became slightly more _complicated_. Maybe this was a good thing… Beau and Caleb were close, and maybe she could tell Jester what she ought to do. “Can I ask you a question, Beau?” Her voice sounded hushed and conniving.

“Sure,” Beau said, sliding into the chair beside Jester. She grabbed on of the sausages on Jester’s plate, and Jester watched with a smile playing on her lips as Beau began to chew, making a deep sound of appreciation and licking her fingers as she finished. The display was starkly different from her sleek, graceful movements on the battlefield. Beau grabbed another sausage, and noticing her watching, made a _keep talking_ gesture.

Jester bit her bottom lip. It felt wrong to tell her about the portrait. It felt wrong in the same way that going down into that little pit Caleb had crafted for himself felt wrong, except _worse,_ because though Jester could imagine the visibility of the staircase was a personal cry for help, she couldn’t imagine Caleb would _ever_ be okay with her telling Beau without his explicit consent. That was something Caleb would have to tell her _himself_ , if he ever decided he wanted her to know. Beau coughed, and Jester realized she was staring off into the distance. “Beau,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. She watched Sprinkle writhe a little in her gentle grip. “How do you _help_ someone?” She had to force her eyes not to unconsciously flit to the staircase, which was still in her range of sight. “When they, uh, _you know_ …” She played with a loose strand of her hair. “They’re doing bad but they don’t _ask_ for help?”

Beau stayed quiet for a second, her fingers tapping the table rhythmically. Her blue eyes met Jester’s, and she said, a little softer than Jester was used to her voice being, “I guess, you, uh.” She shrugged, and her face was… strange. She looked more vulnerable than she usually allowed herself to be. “You let them know there’s help, even if they don’t… _want_ it.”

Jester widened her eyes, and she felt something in her gut shift uncomfortably as she realized what she’d have to do. It felt _right_ , but just imagining the _cost_ made her grimace. She imagined hatred in Caleb’s face, directed at _her_ , and it made her visibly wince. “ _Oh._ ”

Beau tilted her head, and stretched out her arms. She asked, carefully, one of her hands as she lowered her arms playing with one of her blue monk vestments, “Are you talking about someone in _specific_ , Jester?” Her tone was casual, inviting—Beau was a _curious_ motherfucker, and Jester had to respect that.

She straightened her back, and shrugged. “ _You know_ ,” she said, clenching her jaw guiltily. “I worry about _everyone_.” Beau furrowed her eyebrows, and after waiting for further explanation that did not come, opened her mouth to retort, but Jester suddenly shot up. She didn’t want to talk around what she’d already realized she needed to do. She said, too loud, “I need to go _poop_ , goodbye.” She ignored Beau’s startled, “ _Wait_ —”, and almost _ran_ to the staircase on the other side of the room, that went _up, up, all the way up_ , so fast she almost stumbled several times. She made it to the hallway where her room was, and then opened the door, smiling despite herself, despite the _situation_ , at the haven Caleb had constructed just for _her_.

The walls were painted a lovely blue, and there were bookshelves _full_ of romantic books Caleb had remembered from all his travels that he thought Jester might like. There was a shrine to the Traveler in one corner, which had made Jester _scream_ in excitement when she’d first seen it, with a cool statue and _everything,_ and a _desk_ , and other beautifully made furniture whose quality would’ve been comparable to what her mother would’ve insisted for their rooms. She ran and jumped onto her four poster bed, and sighed as she felt herself sink into the mattress, her hand finding its way to her Traveler symbol. _There’s always a cost_ , Caleb had said to Ophelia Mardun, when they’d made their way back from Molly’s grave. Her heart had clenched at his tone. It was still something she struggled with. The fact that good actions by good people still had _fucking_ consequences.

She brought her symbol close to her lips, and cast _Sending._ The familiar arcane words and somatic gestures the Traveler had taught her were comforting, but the dread at the thought of Caleb’s response to her confession made her want to shrivel up and _maybe_ die. “Hey, Cayleb.” Her free hand played nervously with the chain jewelry attached from her ear to her horn. “Don’t be _mad_.” She wanted to wince at how she sounded. This wasn’t a _joke_ , she didn’t think it was a _joke_ — “I went down the _stairs_ , and I, uh. I saw _him_ , Cayleb. Trent Ikithon.” Hatred colored the way she enunciated every syllable of that bastard’s _fucking_ name. “I’m sorry. I _know_ you’re mad at me but I just wanted to let you—” Jester paused, realizing she’d probably hit her word limit, and waited for Caleb’s response, but there was _nothing_. After a couple of minutes, she sighed, and against her better judgement, brought the symbol closer again, and recast the same spell. “I’m _sorry_ , Cayleb. It was in the middle of the _Chateau_ , and it didn’t _belong_ , and I’m _sorry_.” She bit her bottom lip, which she realized was trembling. “Are you _okay_? Will you talk to _me_?” There was nothing again, and Jester was about to grab her pillow and _cry_ into it, until she heard a soft sigh in her head.

She bolted up, her arms shaking from all the tension in them. _Oh, Jester_. She brought her knees close to her chest and kind of curled into herself. He didn’t sound _angry_ , or even disappointed, was the thing. She would _much_ rather that he _was_. He sounded _scared._ Jester wanted to grab him by his face, and ask him what was wrong, but she _couldn’t_ , and it made her want to _tear this mansion apart_ , looking for him. _I left it really easy to find. I… shouldn’t’ve. I’m sorry you had to see that._ Jester shook her head, and mouthed _No_ to herself, as she heard just how ragged his voice sounded. _No, no, no, no, no, no_ — His voice interrupted her panicked thoughts. _I won’t let this happen again._ She waited for more, but there was nothing else, and of _course_ there wouldn’t be, she thought. Caleb Widogast counted _everything_ , and so of course he counted the words of the _Sending_ spell.

There was a distant pain Jester could feel in her hand, and she realized her hand had tightened around the Traveler symbol so much that the corners were jutting into it. She relaxed her grip, and tried to take deep, relaxing breaths. _Fuck_ , it felt like there was no air in her _lungs_. She shook her head to herself, hating the fact that he was upset because he thought he’d hurt _her_ , and she recast _Sending_ again, because the thought of Caleb down there, _alone…_ “Cayleb,” she said, trying to think of the right combination of words to make him _come back_. “It’s… okay.” It felt wrong to be forgiving _him_ , but she needed him back, she needed him closer to _her_ than _Trent fucking Ikithon_ — “Will you please come back?” She bit her lip, and then sighed. _Everything has a cost._ She said, despite the fact that it went against all of her instincts as a friend and as a _person_ , “We don’t have to _talk_ about it.”

There was a pause, and Jester strained her ears, waiting for his lovely, accented voice to fill her head. It didn’t come. Jester eyed the clock in her room miserably, and waited, still curled into a little ball. She could hear the vicious thoughts start to tear into her again, about how she had ruined everything with her _nosiness_ and _selfishness_ and _stupidity_ , and there were tears brimming in her eyes, and just when it was all about to become a little too much, she heard someone else, someone who _wasn’t_ Caleb—but it didn't matter, because she was just as _relieved_ to hear the familiar timbre of the Traveler's voice as she would've been if Caleb had responded.

“I told you, my dear.” The Traveler didn’t _sound_ like he hated her. He shimmered beside her, his flowing cape looking bright and ethereal, and Jester hugged him, closing her eyes as he lifted his arms and encompassed her in that soft cloak of his. “All good things come to those who _wait_.”

She shook her head to herself, feeling her arms tremble as she gripped him. Her fingers were digging into his shoulders, but he didn’t say anything, and continued to hold her tight.. “Did I ruin it, Traveler?” She didn’t even want to _start_ to define what _it_ was.

He, blissfully, didn’t press her on it. He said, after humming low under his breath as he patted her back comfortingly, “No, my dear.” His voice was so _sure_ and so _warm_ , and it made her want to kind of weep. “You didn’t ruin it.”

She moved back just an inch, and laughed to herself. There wasn’t any sound that came out, and she felt a little choked. “Will you stay here?” she said, rubbing her face roughly with her gloved hand. Caleb was _alone_ , and Caleb would rather _be_ alone, with old portraits and battle plans than be with _her_ — Jester forced herself to exhale, and tried to expel her racing, hurting thoughts. She had to hold it together, she had to hold it together, _she had to hold it together_ —

He tilted his head, and considered her. There was a knowing look to him, like he could sense her panic. “I _would_.” He then gestured to the door, and a little smile unfolded on his face as she heard a hesitant knock. “I don’t think you’d _like_ me to, is the thing.”

She widened her eyes at her door, but when she turned to look back to him, to her oldest, truest friend, he was _gone_. “Motherfucker,” she said, and smiled at the spot where he’d been sitting. She jumped off her bed, and looked in the mirror, fixing her hair and wiping back her tears, before making her way to the door. She froze for just a second, told herself to _get it together, Lavorre_ , and then opened it, bracing herself for Caleb’s… _whatever_ he was feeling, towards her.

Caleb looked…. He looked _awful_ , which—of _course_ , he still looked _lovely_ , and _beautiful_ , and his eyes were still the _prettiest_ blue she’d ever come across, but he looked _tired._  More tired than Jester was used to him looking. He looked pale and clean and well-shaven and spotless, which was normally a comforting thing, except now she knew that he liked to spend his time in the mansion with a portrait of _Trent Ikithon_ , and the sharp look in his eyes and his clean-cut figure kind of terrified her. “Jester,” he said, and his voice kind of broke a bit. He raised his arms, and Jester immediately jumped into his embrace, pushing him back slightly as she buried her face in his white shirt.

“ _Cayleb_ ,” she said, hugging him so tightly she felt him kind of wince. She loosened her grip a little, biting the inside of her cheek guiltily. She didn’t want him to _break_ , after all. “I’m _sorry_. I shouldn’t’ve gone down there.” She looked up hesitantly, and braced herself for his condemnation.

He sighed, and rubbed his face. After a painful moment, she felt his arms wrap around her more firmly. “I shouldn’t’ve left it in the open,” he muttered. His face grew momentarily _dark_ , and then he looked at her, remorse all over his expression. “I’m sorry, Jester.”

She moved back slightly, to look up at him more clearly. _No_ , she thought, still holding him tight. Affection and frustration colored her thoughts in equal measure. “Cayleb. You don’t have to _hide_ it.” She bit the inside of her cheek again, and tried to think of a way to order all of her racing thoughts. “Not if you don’t _want_ to. I just…” She shrugged a little, and felt so small. “I wanted to _help_ , you know.”

He watched her carefully, and then there was a crack in his composure, and he was looking at her like he couldn’t quite tell if she was real, like he was a little in disbelief. Jester didn’t know what to make of it, and as she nervously bit her bottom lip, he said, wryly, running his hand through his hair, “It’s not a very pretty side of me.” Jester narrowed her eyes. There was that _look_ again, the same look from when he had tried to insist to them that _I’m not a very good person_ , and Jester wanted to grab his face and pull him close, bring his lips to hers and whisper into his ear about _exactly_ how pretty she thought he was…

She broke away from him a bit, instead, and made sure he was meeting her gaze. “Are you _okay_ , Cayleb?” She _needed_ him to be honest with her, and she hoped he could see how genuine she was being, with the unshed tears still lined in her eyes and the trembling in her voice. She needed him to know this wasn’t some _joke_ to her, that she didn’t think he was some _project_. He and Jester were so much, but at the very fucking least, they were friends, and she _needed_ … she _needed_ his honesty. She needed _him_.

He sighed. His clever eyes flitted to her face. “You said we didn’t have to talk about it.”

Jester winced. _Motherfucker._ “I _did_.” She bit her lip, and brushed her hair behind her ear. _Fuck_. She didn’t even want to consider the implications of all that. He’d come back to her, but it would cost them both dearly. She’d known that the _second_ she’d decided to let that sentence escape her lips, and she’d said it anyway.

He paused, and then, after another hesitant moment, moved a little closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. Even from this contact, she could feel the heat radiating off of him, and it made her want to nestle in again. “Are _you_ okay?”

 _No_. No, she _wasn’t_. She jutted her chin out at him, and smiled a little brittly. “I said we didn’t have to talk about it.” He raised an eyebrow at her _hurt_ , almost _accusatory_ tone, and looked at her with so much fucking amusement and hesitance and _pain_ playing on his face. She grabbed the hand on her shoulder, and dragged him into her room, pulling him past the threshold. He followed her lead, his eyebrows furrowed, only forcing them to stop when they reached the edge of her bed. He opened his mouth, his eyes wary, and she just shook her head. “I just want to _cuddle_.” She pushed him onto the soft mattress, slowly and deliberately, making it clear that he understood she wasn’t _forcing_ him, he wasn’t _trapped,_ and he relaxed under her grip, as she fell onto her bed beside him.

“I’m sorry, Jester.” His arm was around her waist, and they fit together so _perfectly_ Jester would’ve beamed, if it weren’t for the fact that his arm was trembling. “I’m sorry that I’m… the way that I am.” He shrugged at her, a little helplessly, and it broke her heart.

She looked at him, and gave him a very serious frown. She clenched her jaw, and poked his chest with her finger, and said, “Cayleb, if you _ever_ apologize for that again, I’ll _hit_ you.”

He hummed under his breath. “It needs saying.” He sounded lost, and very, very far away.

She grimaced, and pinched his arm, forcing him to jolt and look at her, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. “If you say that again,” she began, thinking furiously, “I’ll… uh. I’ll _steal Frumpkin_.”

He let out a rough sound, and it was his choked laugh—that sound he made when he laughed when he _really_ didn’t expect to. It was quickly becoming one of her favorite sounds. “Oh, well.” He smirked at her. “I guess I can never say that, then.”

She nodded, and snuggled in closer to him. She could feel him breathing in and out, and he was so impossibly _warm_ —she wondered if _all_ humans were this warm, or if it was just a Caleb thing. She watched his blackened fingertips holding her own blue, freckled hand, and smiled softly. “Cayleb?”

“Ja?”

She braced herself for what she would have to say next. If they wouldn’t _talk_ about it… “Can I go down the staircase again?” He froze under her, and she _knew,_ she _knew_ it was painful to have other people walking around in your shit. One time her mother had read one of her letters, and Jester had been _so_ angry she hadn’t talked to her for _weeks_ … But he was alone, for hours on end, with Trent Ikithon’s memory, and if they wouldn’t _talk_ about it—

“Jester Lavorre,” he said, wearily. He was smiling, a little, and the way he said her name—he said it like it was _special_ , like she was a spell he couldn’t quite understand, like she was something he _desperately_ longed for, and she wanted to shake his shoulders and scream, _I’m right here, motherfucker._ “You can go wherever you’d like.”

She widened her eyes, and then bit the inside of her cheek hesitantly. “I don’t have to.” Jester peered at him, trying to get a better sense of his mood. “If we could just—”

He shook his head quickly, and his shoulders squared in a way that was almost _defensive_. “I think.” He sighed, pausing to think, and then suddenly brought her close. She squealed a little in delight as he wrapped both of his arms around her. He was _so_ _warm_ — “I think you’d be more scared if you couldn’t.”

“This isn’t about me,” Jester said, finding herself frowning even though she’d gotten what she’d wanted. She didn’t want to breach Caleb’s boundaries in a way that made him feel _violated_ — “I didn’t want to make this about _me_ —”

He kind of laughed, and it was a little less choked, a little less breathless. “Lavorre, I don’t think you’d know _how_ to.” At her furrowed brows, and trembling lower lip, he added, after a moment, “I’m not, ah.” He bit his own bottom lip, and he sighed. “I’m not running.”

Jester pulled him into a kiss, and then, after a moment, just when she’d thought she’d maybe misread his intentions, his hands were in her _hair_ , and he was kissing her _back_. She giggled, and felt him smile against her lips. It was a little bit like _heaven_ , and she could almost forget the tension that remained in his shoulders.

Almost, but. Not quite.

 

Jester visited that wretched room as often as she was able.

She and Caleb were never there at the same time. She didn’t know if it was because he’d cast  _Alarm_ on the staircase so he knew when she came around, and simply went to one of his other secret chambers while she was there, or it were truly a coincidence, but they didn’t talk. One time she’d tried to bring it up, and he’d straightened his spine and reminded her of their deal. His eyes glittered in that way when he’d discovered something new, and she would’ve beamed at the brightness in his face, if she didn’t know it was because he’d found a way to successfully isolate himself from her. It was ingenius, really. He wouldn’t run, but she couldn’t ask, so he didn’t _have_ to run… that _fucker_ was a little brilliant.

Jester _hated_ it. She _hated_ herself for making that bargain, and she _hated_ Caleb for enforcing it. She hated it, because it felt like she and Caleb were frozen, in limbo, dancing around each other, while _this room_ —this room felt _alive_.

Jester was superstitious. She loved Molly’s cards, and had lived for the way he’d expertly picked them out for her, telling her what to make of her past, present and future, and she loved, loved, _loved_ ghost stories, having spent countless hours of her childhood with the Traveler telling tales about widows being haunted by their loved ones, and ghosts of sailors returning to the shore after horrible accidents… there was something horribly romantic about it all. The idea that if your life didn’t get to end so happily, you could find retribution, or resolution, in the next.

There was _nothing_ romantic about what she saw in that room.

For one, there were scratches and marks on the open floor. She wasn’t quite sure the purpose and intention behind them, because _she couldn’t ask_. She gritted her teeth just thinking about it. There were footprints sometimes, and Jester was so fucking thankful that this was the one area of the house that wasn’t cleaned obsessively by Caleb’s cat-servants. Footprints that went in odd directions all over the room, which weren’t Caleb’s, and they _certainly_ weren’t Jester’s…

Now, Jester may be superstitious, but she was also a _detective_. Ghosts were a rather outlandish theory, and not one she’d be prone to immediately jump to, but it wasn’t just the footprints and the skid marks on the floor. The furniture was sometimes scratched, with claw marks against the lovely cabinets made of dark wood. One time, she’d come down and one of the couches was just _destroyed_ , and there was blood that was leaking onto the floor from one of the cushions that was _drenched_ in red… _but she couldn’t ask_. That night, she’d watched Caleb carefully for any sign of injury, but he’d seemed as _spry_ as _ever_ , even giving her a bright smile that kind of collapsed in on itself as he saw how _upset_ she was. Even so, when she’d cornered him he’d reminded them of the bargain _she’d_ come up with, that _she’d_ struck, and she’d balled her hands into fists because _she fucking knew_.

The next time she came down, the entire couch was replaced with a cabinet, and she’d screamed at it in frustration.

The portraits changed sometimes, though their changes were less dramatic. Sometimes they were smiling. Other times they glowered. There was a particularly horrible day when she’d come down and Trent’s portrait was ripped into shreds almost _animalistically_ , with dents in the wooden floor like someone, or maybe something, was thrown around and had now been erased from the conception of this mansion. The dents were gone soon after, but the little things… the little scratches, the ones that were hard to notice? They remained. Jester thought of Caleb inspecting the wooden floor, doing his best but tired after whatever fuck he did in here, missing all the little flaws, all the little ways his trauma manifested itself onto him. It made her sad, and it made her angry, because she was the exact same fucking way, wasn’t she? Who was she to judge? She thought of Caleb, rummaging through her head, picking apart all the little ways she was ruined, and it brought tears to her eyes.

The maps took her longer to see, which was terrifying because they were perhaps the most sinister. The borders of the Empire were travelling outwards, out into Xhorhas, out into the Menagerie Coast and Nicrodranas, and there were little battle plans being made, with military terms she didn’t understand, but that she was certain Caleb _did_. The only thing that kept her from pulling him aside and interrogating him was the certainty that it would only drive him away, and the fact that those hateful little marks weren’t in Caleb’s handwriting. Jester had a pretty good idea, despite having no way to _prove_ her conjecture, that she knew _exactly_ whose handwriting it was. She practiced imitating it in her journal, and before making her way back up the stairs, gave Trent Ikithon and his horrible, smug face the middle finger.

She couldn’t ask, she couldn’t _ask_ , _she couldn’t ask—_ they’d _made_ a deal, and she and Caleb had both gotten a lot out of it. She was suspecting that he’d gotten more than she did, and she was beginning to kind of hate him for it.

 

One night he got sloppy.

It had been a rough fight, and Jester was honestly stunned that Caleb had managed to reserve the magic that he needed for the mansion. He was swaying slightly as he cast it, something bright and determined and terrifying in his face, and Jester had _tears_ in her eyes, because all her friends were beaten and battered and broken, and she and Caduceus had positively _nothing_ left, _nothing_ that could dullen the aching in their bones.

Caduceus gave her shoulder a squeeze, as the elaborate double doors materialized before them. “You did good,” he said. His pink hair shifted slightly with the breeze.

Normally, Caduceus’ deep voice would’ve comforted her, but her head was too crowded and she was too _fucking_ angry. She shook her head, wetness brimming in her eyes. She couldn’t even bring herself to say something, and Caduceus mercifully dropped his hand from her shoulder, perhaps realizing what a burden it felt like in that moment. She felt the guilt run through her like a dagger in her chest. Caduceus had kept her _alive_ , and now, selfishly, she couldn’t even accept his _comfort_ —

The creak of Caleb opening the double doors interrupted her from her thoughts, and he stumbled through them first, not even bothering to look back to the rest of them. They followed suit behind him, but as the rest made their way to the staircase near the end of the main lobby, Caleb stumbled down to the staircase to the right, the staircase that went _down, down, all the way_ fucking _down_ —

Beau moved to grab him, her mouth already opening to snap an obscenity, but Jester suddenly blocked her path, grabbing her arm. Caleb ignored them both, continuing until they couldn’t see him anymore. “Hey—” Beau began, bruises making her skin look blackened and purple where they should’ve been brown. There was a little snarl to her lips, and she was angry, and so fucking _scared_. Her eyes darted between Jester and where Caleb had disappeared, and her fist trembled against Jester’s firm hold.

“I’ve got this, _Beau_ ,” Jester insisted, not letting go of her. She widened her eyes, hoping Beau could understand what she was far too fucking tired to say. After tonight, she _really_ didn’t want to fight with anybody, and she hated the way they were all looking at her right now. Like she was being crazy, or unreasonable. They didn’t _understand_ —after all, they hadn’t spent the last couple of _weeks_ seeing Caleb _unravel_ , and she couldn’t let them cross his threshold so thoughtlessly, like _she had_ … She gave Beau another deliberate look, and begged her with her eyes to _trust me, Beau, please trust me_. “He gave me _permission_ to go down there.”

There was a pause. Beau gritted her teeth, like she might try to argue again, but then, there was a sudden tug on her coat, and Beau looked down in surprise to a beaten and bloody Nott. She was so quiet sometimes that it was hard to notice her, despite her loud voice and strong personality. It was in these moments Jester realized what a truly amazing rogue Nott was, having spent so many months reminding her to _please check for traps before trying to unlock something, I’m begging_ —

Nott the Brave simply shook her head, and said, her reedy voice low and cracking, “I trust you, _Jester_.” Her bright, intelligent gaze met hers, and she nodded, mouthing a silent _thank you_. Nott nodded back at her, and turned, tilting her head to the staircase, and _god_ , there was _blood_ staining the _railing—_ Nott said, snapping Jester’s attention back to her, “ _He_ trusts you too.”

Jester get her a wet little smile, and then met Beau’s gaze, watching her expectantly. Beau, for her part, simply looked from Nott to Jester, and then back again. There was something almost _hurt_ in her expression. “How long?” she whispered, quietly.

Jester shrugged weakly, which was a damn _fucking_ lie since she knew exactly how long it had been since she’d first gone down that path into that horrifying, isolating room. “About a month.” Her voice cracked a little, and she forced herself to straighten her back, and look at Beau insistently. “I’ve _got_ this, Beau.” She loosened her grip on Beau’s arm.

Beau stared at her determinedly for a second, and then _moved_ , and Jester widened her eyes as she felt her strong, toned arms wrap around her. “I love that bastard,” she muttered, in Jester’s ear. She sounded so _ragged_ , and so _tired_. “And I love _you_.” There was something a little stricken in her rough voice. “Please bring both of you back.”

Jester nodded, her eyes wide, and Beau’s grip on her tightened for a second longer, before she abruptly let go of Jester and sauntered to the staircase near the end of the main lobby. She looked at the rest of the Mighty Nein over her shoulder, who were staring at the display with a mixture of resignation and disbelief, and called out, “She’s _got_ this! Let’s get some sleep, _Arschlochs_.” Jester smirked at her Zemnian.

They followed, one after the other. Caduceus gave Jester a lingering glance she didn’t quite understand, and then he followed after Beau. Jester winced at his silent, almost unnoticeable judgement. Nott was the last, waiting for them to be alone before grabbing Jester’s hand. “Remind him what’s important,” she said simply, and then she raced her way up the stairs, following after Fjord.

Jester took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She was alone now, except for Sprinkle and Nugget… She looked down at her beloved dog. “Go with them, please.” He looked at her, with his head tilted, and she nodded, heartbroken. “I don’t want you to get _hurt_ , Nugget.” The dog didn’t move for another moment, and Jester feared having to bring him down, but then he _blinked_ , and Jester looked to see him midway up the stairs. Nugget _woofed_ at her, and she smiled, waving to him, and he continued _blinking_ , up, up and far away _._ She then sighed, her smile dropping, and made her way to the _other_ staircase. Every sound of her footfalls made her want to wince—it sounded so painfully _loud_ against the moody silence. Thought the chandeliers were lit and slightly swaying, emitting bright, warm light from the twenty or so candles each one possessed, washing the entire room in an orange hue, Jester felt _cold_ , more so than she naturally did. She felt cold to her _bones_. She grabbed onto the railing accompanying the stairs, careful not to touch any of the spilled blood, and _god_ , the wood was so _cold_ under her palm—it hadn’t _seemed_ so cold _before…_

There was music, as she descended down. It wasn’t anything that she was even _remotely_ familiar with from Nicrodranas, but it sounded like something she might occasionally hear Caleb hum under his breath, during the long stretches of road they would sometimes have to travel when teleportation wasn’t necessarily an option, whether it be due to financial restrictions or a need to lay low. He would hum, and she would ask him to sing, and he would reject her, but he’d do it with a gentle smile that made her feel like she was on top of the fucking _world_.

Jester made her way to the door, at the end of the stairs, and pressed her ear against the cool wood. There was a thudding, the sound of feet against the wooden floor, and _sounds_ —Zemnian accents. More voices than just Caleb’s. More _accents_ than just Caleb’s, all different and unique despite being Zemnian in origin. There was one that practically _exuded_ power, and practically _dripped_ authority, and though Jester couldn’t make out his words, she could just imagine losing herself in it, in a way that wasn’t necessarily pleasant. It sounded deep, and it sounded layered, and it was so, so— _unsettling_.

Jester grabbed the handle and pushed it open, suddenly overwhelmed by the _wrongness of it all_ , and she saw Trent Ikithon looking at her with a raised eyebrow, contempt evident in his very controlled expression. He held a staff in his hand, the same one from his portrait, and his robes looked lovely and pressed and refined. It was _strange_. There was an ethereal aspect to him, like he wasn’t quite _there…_ The others hadn’t noticed his reaction to her yet. A muscular man with dark hair was sitting on one of the couches, a bottle of alcohol in his hand. He was staring determinedly at a blonde woman who wore a flowing green dress, who was _dancing_ —

Jester’s hands involuntarily rose to her mouth. This woman was dancing with _Caleb._ He was no longer beaten and bleeding— _fuck_ , he looked _radiant_. His eyes were bright and dancing, and his lips were pulled into an easy, almost _lazy_ , little smile. He’d taken off his coat, and had his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he was _dancing_ with _her_ , with that _woman_ —he looked utterly _lost_ in her. Their form was perfect, and he was gazing at her like he was _hypnotized_ , like she was everything he ever could’ve _wanted_ , and _that_ —Jester realized, with her hands shaking—that fucking _hurt_.

“Leave,” Trent said, looking bored with her. He tapped the staff against the floor, and gazed at her expectantly, his lips curled into a haughty frown. He looked at her the way visitors at the Chateau used to look at her, asking whose _fucking_ child this was—

Jester balled her hands into fists. “ _No_ ,” she hissed. “ _You_ leave.” Her mind was racing. This couldn’t be _real_ , there was no way the actual Archmage of _Civil Influence_ or whatever the _fuck_ was here, in Caleb’s little pocket dimension. The woman that Caleb couldn’t seem to look away from—she could feel her heart kind of break a little, at Caleb’s lovestruck fixation on her—was clearly _Astrid_. She wasn’t quite sure about the other man, but she noticed Caleb look over Astrid momentarily to give him a warm little smile. Someone else he knew. Regardless, it seemed as though none of them had noticed her, or if they had, were determined to ignore her. Jester grimaced, and began to make her way over to Caleb. Tough _fucking_ shit.

“He doesn’t want you.” There was something about the certainty in fake-Trent’s voice that caused her falter in her step. “He wants us. You’ve always been an intruder.” He examined his nails, and Jester wanted to _deck_ him in his pompous fucking face. “ _Leave_.”

Jester looked to Caleb, and watched as Astrid pulled him close, into an embrace, and he just _melted_ into her, his head resting in the crevice of her neck as he smiled helplessly. His hair was all nice and clean, from when it had been coated in blood before, and Astrid finally met her gaze cooly, a mean little smile playing on her lips. She was _beautiful_. Her eyes matched her sleek, elegant dress, and her hair was curled so _nicely_ , and she was so composed and soft and _bright_ —

“He wants her.” Trent’s icy voice interrupted Jester’s stream of thought. He made his way to Jester, walking languidly, and shrugged. “He _has_ her. She didn’t have to break into his heart.”

Jester could feel her hands, already curled into fists, trembling. She looked away from Trent’s face, and looked to Caleb, and said, unable to hide the slight trembling in her voice, “He says you don’t want me around. That true, _Cayleb_?”

“It’s true,” Trent insisted, and there was suddenly an edge of hysteria in his _wretched_ voice, that seemed so _composed_ just a second ago, and Jester, with widened eyes, stared at Caleb, who’d pulled Astrid back by her shoulders and was gazing deep into her, doubt clouding the adoration in his eyes. “It’s true, it’s true, _it’s true_ —” Trent chanted those two words like they were an incantation, and Jester turned, and with her eyes blazing, pulled her arm back, and punched him.

Trent’s mouth opened almost comically wide, and he stared at her with incredulous eyes, like he couldn’t quite _believe_ what she’d done. Jester then watched as his form shifted, and he became a semi-translucent cat-like creature… one of the _servants_. He _hissed_ at Jester, and raced into one of the other rooms that connected into this main hall, his claws marking the dark wood as he ran. Jester stared after him, mystified, before turning to the other two, to the man and Astrid. She watched as they both _snarled_ at her, before themselves moving, and transforming as they ran, into other cat-servants. Astrid, as the transformation was happening, kind of giggled, and said, “He’ll hate you for this, _Lavorre_.”

Before she could open her mouth to retort, or even step forward threateningly, Astrid and the man followed out the open door Trent had gone through, skidding across the floor in their haste to run from her. They left behind them a sudden, _reckoning_ quiet, that was only interrupted by Caleb’s ragged breathing. He had sunk to the floor on his knees, not looking at her.

Jester stepped forward, and reached her hands out to grab Caleb by the hands he was digging into his hair as he leaned to the ground, his shoulders trembling. “Cayleb—”

He looked up at her, with clouded eyes. She reared back. _Fuck_. There was still something _off_ about him— “ _No_ ,” he hissed, as Jester tried to assess what was happening. “No, no, nein, _no—_ ” Around him, three more spirits started to materialize. They were more cat-servants, in their sleek, semi-translucent forms, but as they writhed and came into being, they were suddenly black hounds, as dark as the night when the Mighty Nein were camping under the stars. They snarled at her, circling Caleb and separating the two of them, and Jester stumbled back, as one hissed and exposed his jagged teeth to her in a threatening manner. Jester watched, with wide eyes, as one suddenly latched onto Caleb’s leg and tore into him, and Caleb _screamed_ , fumbling with his dagger as the other two joined in, grabbing at his _other_ _leg,_ and his _stomach_ —

Jester forced herself to get up, and she _kicked_ the dog. She _loved_ animals, and she would’ve rather _died_ than hurt Nugget, but these animals… there was something wild, almost _deranged_ , in their eyes. They were trained to kill. She could see scars all over them, and her heart broke for the abuse they’d been forced to undergo—at least, she mourned for the animals these constructs were undoubtedly _based off of_ —but they were hurting her friend, and so she _kicked_ them.

The dog _snarled_ , and Jester watched its form start to dematerialize as he skidded across the floor. He writhed for a second longer, before the flesh seemed to release off the semi-translucent cat form, which was now tinged in red. He hissed at Jester, his tail flicking violently before his features seemed to be almost  _undone_ before her very eyes. She turned back to the other two, and Caleb’s struggling, bleeding form, and she kicked them, one after the other. They didn’t seem too interested in her, only focused on Caleb, and that made them easy targets and her a willing killer. Soon, there were three rotting dog carcasses on the floor, and she watched with wide eyes as blood pooled on the floor around Caleb’s stomach, as he desperately tried to soak it in with his white shirt, attempting to cover the wound.

She kneeled beside him, and pulled out from her haversack still on her back some clean bandages she always had on her person. She had no more magic she could spare, and she winced every time he hissed in pain.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He blinked, and Jester realized that it was  _tears_  he was trying to force away. He grabbed Jester’s shoulder, and then widened his eyes, hastily pulling away when he realized his blood was drenching her cloak. Jester just shook her head. Like she gave a _fuck_ about _blood stains, honestly._ She grabbed his arm, forcing him to keep it there, before pulling her own arm away to focus on bandaging his wound. She looked at him sternly as his arm trembled, his grip frighteningly weak on her. “Sorry, Jester.” He ran his other arm over his face, presumably to wipe away the moisture in his eyes.

“You don’t have to _do_ that, _you know_.” She tightened the bandage around the wound, and met his gaze.

He looked utterly _ruined_. His normally impassive face was shocked and stricken and _scared_ , and his arms were trembling. His grip on her was far too _light,_ and he looked so _weak,_ and he was biting his bottom lip, just shaking his head to himself. He was stripped of all the walls he normally had around him, and she’d wanted that, but not like _this_. Not when he was this raw, and writhing, and _hurt._ “Do what, Lavorre?”

Her lips couldn’t help but quirk up a little at the fondness in how he said her name. “ _Apologize_.” She grabbed his face, and pulled him close to her, so their foreheads were touching. “You don’t have to _apologize_ , Cayleb.”

He made a breathless sound with his mouth that made him wince, and Jester thought it might’ve been a weak little laugh. “They do what I tell them to.” Jester raised her eyebrows at his wound, and he kind of sighed, clenching his jaw. “I—my shitty fucking _head_ ”—he let out a ragged breath, his voice just _full_ of trembling self-loathing—“wanted to hurt you, so I, uh. I’m sorry.”

Jester bit her bottom lip, and waited for him to meet her gaze. The guilt in his eyes practically _killed_ her. “Well, then.” She shrugged. “I forgive _you_.”

He momentarily stilled from her when she said that, and then he tried to jerk away from her. The rejection stung, but Jester let him move away, though she kept her arms around his waist to support his position. “ _Don’t_.” His voice was nasty and contemptuous and it reminded her of _Trent_ , but the venomous hatred wasn’t directed at _her_ this time. His entire body was quivering, and he begged to her, with tears in his eyes, his shoulders spasming from all the pain he was in, “ _Don’t_.”

She narrowed her eyes, and put both her arms under him. He made a soft noise in surprise as she lifted him up, holding him bridal-style. “My choice to make, _Widogast_.” She said his name like it was a _challenge_ , and carried him to the couch where the other man, with the dark hair, had been drinking. She eyed the bottle of alcohol that had rolled onto the floor with distaste, and kicked it to the side as she laid Caleb on the couch, propping his head onto one of the cushions as she double-checked that the bandages had sealed his wounds properly. They _seemed_ to be in working order for _tonight_ , but he needed healing, _badly…_ She frowned as he looked at her with his stricken eyes. “What?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

“Oh, Jester,” he sighed, gingerly feeling with his hand where she’d bandaged him. She grabbed it as he did, intending to lecture him about _not prodding your wounds_ , _Cayleb_ , but as soon as their gazes met, Jester realized they were way closer than she’d thought, and her face flushed. “Don’t…” He furrowed his eyebrows as he searched desperately for words. “Don’t be gentle with me.” His eyes examined the determination on her face, and he kind of groaned, but there was an affection to it, to the tilt of his mouth, that made Jester’s heart _leap_. “Jester, I—”

She placed a finger against his lips in a _shushing_ gesture, and he looked at her miserably. “ _Again_ ,” she said, softly. “My _choice_.”

He wrung his hands, and said, through his shaking breath, “I _hate_ hurting you. I just wanted to deal with this on my _own—_ ”

“You can’t, _though_.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s what friends are _for_ , Cayleb.” She could _hear_ frustration tinge her own voice, and she tried to repress it. “You can’t deal with everything on your _own_.”

He put his hands over his face, and through them, she heard, slightly muffled, “ _You_ do.” At her stunned silence, he lowered his hands, and looked at her wearily. “You do, Jester.”

Jester watched him silently, and felt a little like she’d been _slapped_ —except, there was a kindness in the pain she felt blossom inside of her. It reminded her absurdly of when the tutor she’d had as a child had shown her the blood vessels that spread through her body, connecting every single part of her and making Jester Lavorre more than just the sum of flesh and nerve endings. He was looking at something deep inside of her, something hard, something a little impossible, and it made her want to hide, and she _normally_ would have, under a smile and maybe a dick joke, _but—_ Jester steeled herself, and built up her nerve. She got up, and left Caleb’s side momentarily to go pick up her pink haversack, left on the blood-soaked floor. She winced at the stains, already imagining the _nightmare_ it would be to scrub out all the red, and came back to Caleb, sitting next to where he laid on the couch. She opened the haversack as it sat on her lap, and rummaged through, finding the pink envelope that she’d carried with her since she’d left Nicodranas. She offered it to him, and tried not to wince when he hesitantly reached his hand out to take it.

He momentarily froze, his fingers just barely grasping it. “My hands are bloody.”

She shrugged, and clenched her jaw nervously. “It’s _okay_ , you know. It’s—nothing _special_.” She sighed, and looked away from his soft gaze, blinking rapidly to force back the moisture building in her eyes. “It’s—it’s _fine_.” God, what was she doing? It felt wrong, and it felt right, but giving her _crush_ something so _embarrassing…_

Caleb made a gentle noise of disagreement, and brushed his hands on the couch several times, until he was satisfied that they were as reasonably clean as could be expected. He then took the envelope from her waiting hand, and opened it carefully. She winced at every sound the delicate paper made. He took out the letter, and eyed the writing, written with blue marker over purple paper, and smiled at the illustration of Jester holding her hand with Marion’s. It was nowhere _near_ her current skill level, so his bright mind could probably deduce that this was from  _many_ years ago, and just when Jester was about to grab it back and insist that this was a _horrible_ idea, he began reading out loud and Jester’s stomach dropped.

_Dear DAD,_

_I snuck outside and listened to Momma sing again. I know I’m not allowed, but I finished my worksheet early and Blude wasn’t watching so, you know. He’s GRAYING and I have to keep him alert even though he’s getting OLD!_

_Blude said something mean about you when he didn’t think I could hear. I would have TOTALLY defended you but he was in the main lobby, and I’m not allowed there, technically. He said you were probably screwing other women, and he said you were a dickhead, but he’s wrong. Don’t worry, I tied his shoelaces together later and he tripped and fell over and EVERYONE laughed._

_I know he’s wrong for SEVERAL REASONS. ONE: Momma said you love us and you want to come home, but you just got a little late. She’s the smartest person ever so Blude can suck it. TWO: I heard Momma sing today and she’s the best singer in the world and you would be stupid to choose someone else. I know since you’re not stupid, since you’re my DAD, so you’re coming home. Can you come home already?? I want to hear ALL about the ocean._ ~~_THREE:_~~

_THE LITTLE SAPPHIRE_

Caleb had paused after he said _ocean_ , his eyes lingering on the crossed word after it, but he’d continued on smoothly. It didn’t matter. Jester felt the momentarily pause pass through her like a bullet wound through an artery. She flitted her eyes away, cheeks and neck flushing as Caleb’s lilting Zemnian voice went through her childish scrawl. “Jester—” he said, leaning to her, but she straightened her spine and laughed a little nervously.

“Stupid, _right_?” Her voice shook a little. “I ran out of time near the _end_ , but I had more.” She bit her bottom lip. “More _reasons_ , but, uh. He doesn’t _want_ me—” Her voice broke off as she remembered their last visit to Zadash, and she kind of curled into herself, unable to finish her sentence. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and she froze suddenly, as Caleb reached over and pulled her into an embrace.

“No,” he said, his head resting between her shoulder and her neck. “There isn’t a single stupid thing about you, Jester Lavorre.” He leaned back his head, and then, after a painful second, reached out and brushed away the tears she hadn’t even realized were falling until she felt his blackened fingertips wipe them away. He folded the letter carefully, and placed it back in the envelope, offering it back to Jester. “Did you write to him a lot?” His voice was soft.

She nodded, the movement of her head jerky. “ _Ja._ ” He smiled at her Zemnian, and she flushed. “I was, uh. Gonna show _him_ , but this was the only one I could… take when I first left home.” She sighed, and rubbed at her arms nervously. “Felt _stupid_ to take the others the next time we visited my _mom_.”

Caleb clenched his jaw. “Again.” There was something forceful, something _insistent_ , in his voice, and Jester, who could feel his every intake of _breath_ from how they were positioned… well. It kind of made her want to do something _drastic_. “There’s nothing _stupid_ about you, Lavorre.”

She raised her head, and she searched his eyes, which were normally so full of doubt but were so _sure_ in this instant, and unable to stop herself, she kissed him. It felt—it was _different_ , from earlier. Most of their kisses lately had felt like _distractions_ , dancing around the very obvious elephant in the room. This felt _natural_ , like they were finally on the same page, and she sighed into his mouth, pulling away to cup his face in her hands. “How did you _heal_ yourself?” she demanded. “Earlier?”

“Hmmm?” He sounded dazed, which made her momentarily quirk up her lips. “A trick, with the transmuter's stone. I can heal with it, but it disintegrates the stone. Need another one.” He winced, and looked at her remorsefully, his brilliant blue eyes wracked with guilt. “Didn’t want… this shit”—he gestured to the room, and then specifically to the dog carcasses—“to scare you.”

Jester sighed. Of course Caleb would find a whole new way to fuck around with magic just so he wouldn’t have to ask for help. “I’m the _cleric_ , Cayleb.” She widened her eyes for emphasis, and waited in the silence until he looked away, his cheeks and neck flushing, and then she eyed the dog carcasses. “I thought the servants couldn’t _attack_ or _hurt_ people.” Caleb had mentioned that, when he’d first shown the mansion to them. He’d sounded so _excited_ , and Jester’s heart broke for him, broke for the fact that it had became such a nightmare.

He smiled helplessly, and shrugged a little, wincing from the flash of pain the action must’ve caused. “I thought so, too.” He rubbed the back of his head, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I think I… may have unconsciously fucked with the spell. They only seem to be able to hurt _me_.” He clenched his jaw. “I keep looking over the way I transcribed my runes, and I can’t find _anything_ —”

Jester grabbed his shoulders with both of her hands and looked at him intently. “It’s _okay_ , Caleb. You did your best.”

“Wasn’t good enough,” he muttered. He was folding into himself, and Jester remembered _shouting_ at Blude, standing on her little bed, when he couldn’t tell her where her father was, demanding to know why she _wasn’t_ _good enough_ —

She shrugged, and tried to smoothen her own voice. “We can _help._ ” She ran her hand through his hair, pushing it back so she could see his face more clearly. “They won’t hurt you _anymore_.”

“Oh?” He smiled, presumably at how  _sure_ she sounded. “How do you insist on that?” He raised his eyebrow, and there was something in his voice, like he was trying to be teasing but the desperation kind of bled through anyway, despite his best intentions.

Jester could relate to that. She clenched her jaw, and her hands danced around his chin and his cheek. “We _board_ this place _up_ , Cayleb.” _You can’t disappear down here_ , she thought, desperately, holding him close. _You have to stay with us._

He tilted his head at her. “I already _tried_ ,” he said, and she could practically _feel_ the fear and tiredness drip from his every word. He looked at his hands, and at his scarred arms, and he said, quietly, “I couldn’t do it, Jester.” He slumped his shoulders.

Jester looked at him intently. “Let _me_ try.” She thought of the Traveler, and she grinned, letting go of Caleb to grip her symbol tightly with both hands. She was about to call on him, her mind already furiously whirring with ideas, but then she looked to Caleb, who looked so small and vulnerable on the couch, and she said, trying to give him an encouraging smile, “Trust me.”

He looked at her, and then past her, at Trent Ikithon’s portrait. After a frightening, stiffening silence, he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for a _while_ , and he nodded to her, his head kind of trembling as he did so. “I, uh.” He bit his bottom lip, and then he finally _looked_ at her, and it wasn’t full of guilt and pain and fear—he seemed to finally _see_ her, and it made his lips quirk up into an almost unconscious smile. “I trust you, Jester.”

She _beamed_ at him, and then she called on the Traveler. _I know you’re really busy. I know you don’t have as much time as you used to, to fuck around, but this is serious, Traveler_. She looked at Caleb, whose face was— _hopeful_ , which… it was a good look. She could get used to it on him. _My friend needs help_. _Help me fix this place, so it doesn’t hurt him anymore_. She closed her eyes. For a terrifying second, there was  _nothing_ , and she felt panic at the thought of seeing Caleb’s face crumple. As if he could _sense_ her sudden doubt, she felt Caleb’s rough hand on top of hers, on the Traveler symbol, and he said, quietly, “You’ve already done so much.” He brought her close and directed her into a chaste little kiss.

She giggled. “I’m _praying_ , Cayleb.” She didn’t open her eyes, thinking the sight of Caleb might distract her too much, and she needed _to focus, damn it_ —

“You looked like you needed some assurance,” he retorted, and then she felt his hands pushing away loose strands of her hair from her face, pulling them behind her ears.

She opened her mouth again, to tease him, but then she suddenly felt her symbol grow _hot_ , hotter than she’d ever felt it, and she heard Caleb’s caught breath beside her. She opened her eyes, and looked down, and the symbol was _glowing_. There was another hand on top of Caleb’s, and though Caleb was gazing intently at her, she turned slightly, and met the Traveler’s knowing smile. “You _came_.”

Caleb’s nose wrinkled, but he must’ve figured out what was happening, because his eyes widened, and he looked at the glowing symbol and then back at her with reverence in his eyes. She’d never thought of Caleb as particularly religious, but she thought maybe if she asked him to, he would worship _her_ … Her cheeks flushed at the thought.

The Traveler chuckled beside her. “He’s very pretty, Jester.”

“I _know_ , right.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Could you clear this place of, like, _evil_ cat-servants?”

He sighed, but smiled at her affectionately. “Unfortunately, the sickness is deep in your _friend_ , here.” His hand reached out and touched Caleb’s shoulder, and the Traveler clenched his jaw as divine light flooded into Caleb’s form, and Jester saw dark inky streaks flood out of Caleb’s eyes and his mouth and his ears. Upon closer inspection, she could see that they weren’t really black at all—there were glittering elements in there, and little bright lights, and they looked like they were made of _the night sky_ —

Caleb stiffened, as he saw Jester’s wide eyes on him. “Jester—”

She took one hand off of the Traveler symbol to hold his shoulder. “Trust me,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off of him.

He nodded, and the doubt receded. He looked at her with so much fucking certainty and _faith_ that it made her kind of want to weep.

The Traveler gritted his teeth, and pulled his hand out. He looked at the black smoke that seemed to be rising out of his hand, and then looked back at her, and smiled pleasantly. “Would you take him from here, my dear?”

She furrowed her brows. “What are you gonna _do_?” She bit her lip. “Can I _help_?”

He laughed, his lips curving at her with _such_ a fond smile, which made her heart _dance_ , and he said, “Oh, Jester. You’ve already done _so much_.” He looked at the portrait of Trent Ikithon, and then at the war maps, and he sighed. “I’m going to dispel the evil from this place, but he can’t come here again. At least not _alone_.”

She nodded, and looked to Caleb’s face, which was trained on Jester’s. “He’s gonna seal it up, so it can’t hurt you.”

Shock, and then gratitude flooded his expression. “ _Jester—_ ”

She let go of the symbol, and lifted him up bridal-style again. She carried him across the room, and as Caleb began looking over her shoulder, to where she _knew_ Trent’s portrait was, his own shoulders trembling, she said, “Look at me, Cayleb.”

She could see flashes of bright light reflecting in Caleb’s irises, and could _feel_ divine energy washing over her from where the Traveler was standing in the room, but it wasn’t until she closed the door behind them that Caleb’s gaze met hers. The door closed with a suction, almost closing in on itself, and when Jester turned to examine it, she could see that the wood had splintered and cracked from the sheer amount of _power_ that had sealed it. “Isn’t he _super cool_?” she said, breaking the hushed silence.

Caleb let out a choked little laugh, and he brought his face into the crevice of her neck, and she smiled, as she brought them up the stairs. “It’s—it’s over.”

She smiled. “I _told_ you, Cayleb.” She hummed pleasantly under her breath. It felt _nice_ , to carry him in her arms. She kind of maybe _loved_ the sensation of holding him in her strong, sure grip.

He brought a shaking hand to his chest, and he said, wonder in his voice, “I don’t—it’s still there, but. It’s _over_.” He beamed at her. “It’s _over_ , Jester.”

She smiled back at him. They were in The Lavish Chateau, and Caleb was in her arms, and the chandeliers were emitting a soft, twinkling light, and it suddenly felt like everything would be _okay_. She helped him sit on one of the chairs, and then sat beside him, taking one of his hands in hers. “How do you feel?”

He brought her hand to his lips, and she _beamed_ as he kissed it. “You _saved_ me.”

She giggled. “Does that mean you worship the Traveler, now?”

He looked at her, his eyes widened and his cheeks and neck flushed. Then, after a moment, he smirked a little, and _god_ , did she miss this. He said, like he’d been reading her thoughts earlier, “I’d worship _you_.”

She brought him close, brought him into a kiss, and as she felt him sigh in her mouth, she smiled against his lips, pulling back for just a second to say, “I get to ask now.” She looked at him determinedly.

He nodded, and brought his hand to the back of her head. “So do I.”

She thought of her father, sipping wine and sitting on his makeshift throne under a bar in Zadash, while she was eleven years old and writing her entire _soul_ out on paper that she was supposed to be using to practice her _math_. She cleared her throat, and she nodded, clenching and unclenching her jaw nervously. “Alright, ja.”

He pulled her into another kiss, and she couldn’t help but feel that she liked this deal infinitely better.

 

The mansion didn’t scare Jester Lavorre.

There _were_ things that scared her. Things like the Traveler deciding he didn’t want her after all, or the idea of an incredibly sexy Zemnian lady named Astrid stealing Caleb away in the middle of the night, or the thought of calling her mother through _Sending_ and hearing no response. She thought of things like that _obsessively_ , and they fucking terrified her.

She was beginning to talk about them, though. Not as much as she thought Caleb would’ve liked, but he didn’t push her. He just withheld his own shit, until she caved—and _yeah_ , it annoyed her, even though she could appreciate him using her own curiosity as an incentive for recovery. That fucker was _entirely_ too clever, and it made her want to _do_ things to him.

Caleb didn’t go back down those stairs. He told her one day, “I’m thinking maybe it wouldn’t’ve… been the way that it _had_ , if I’d talked to you from the _start_.” He shook his head, his jaw clenched and his lips framed in a frown, and there was that _look_ in his eyes, like he was _disappointed_ and _disgusted_ in himself, and it was so _intimately_ familiar to Jester, except in her dreams it was directed at _her_ —

She sighed. “ _Cayleb_.” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his chest.

He mimicked her tone. “ _Jester._ ” Despite himself, he brought up one of his own arms to pull her closer.

She said, her voice muffled, “If it had been my mansion, I bet”—she bit the inside of her cheek—“there would’ve been… something similar.”

He brought down his head, and she felt him kiss her forehead. “You’re entirely too forgiving,” he whispered.

She smirked, and pulled away, pulling them into her bed, and as she captured his undoubtedly clever retort at her brazenness in her mouth, she thought, looking at him under her, that even though this wasn’t really the grand romantic adventure she’d planned for when she’d run away from home, she could maybe get used to something like this.


End file.
